


029 "death"

by wheel_pen



Series: Iron Man AU [29]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fish out of Water, My Pepper is different, Parental Death, Pre-Iron Man, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obadiah calls teenage Tony at college in the middle of the night to inform him of his parents’ deaths in a car accident, and guides him through the funeral with a firm but not necessarily wholesome hand. Each anniversary of their death is an opportunity for him to reinforce his power over Tony, at least until Pepper comes along. “Enjoying life. While it lasted.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	029 "death"

**Author's Note:**

> 1) My Pepper is very different from canon Pepper. Her personality/origin is very different; to separate her from canon Pepper I've given her a new last name and a different hair color.
> 
> 2) The bad words are censored. That's just how I do things.
> 
> 3) Stories are numbered in the order I wrote them, which isn't necessarily the order in which they occur. At some point I'll post a timeline.
> 
> I wrote this series after the first Iron Man movie came out. It's very AU but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play with these characters.

            “Gr—ugh?”

            “Tony? Are you awake?”

            “No.”

            “Tony? Tony!”

            “It’s, um… three in the morning, Obie! What the h—l do you want?”

            “Are you alone?”

            “Of course I’m alone. It’s three AM. I was asleep, too, and—“

            “Tony, listen to me. There’s been an accident… Tony?”

            “Accident?”

            “Your parents—they were coming home from a dinner—Tony? Are you listening to me?”

            “Are they…”

            “I’m sorry. You can’t possibly know how—“

            “It’s on TV.”

            “What?!”

            “They’re on CNN.”

            “S—t! The media was supposed to hold off—“

            “There’s pictures.”

            “Turn off the TV, Tony.”

            “G-d, the car is—What could _do_ that to a car, Obie?”

            “Tony, turn off the d—n TV!”

            “Oh. An eighteen-wheeler. Yeah, I guess that would—“

            “What’s that noise?”

            “There’s someone at the door.”

            “Don’t let them in, Tony. It could be a reporter—“

            “It’s just Rhodey.”

            “Tony, man, did you see the—Oh, I guess you did. Are you—Tony? Tony?”

            “Tony! Answer me, g-------t!”

            “Tony, are you okay?”

            “Hey! Pick up the phone! You! Pick up the phone!”

            “Um, hello?”

            “Who is this?”

            “Jim Rhodes. Who is _this_?”

            “Obadiah Stane. Turn off the TV. He doesn’t need to see that.”

            “Okay. The TV’s off.”

            “What’s he doing?”

            “He’s just sitting on the floor, staring at the blank TV. Tony? I think he’s in shock or something.”

            “Jim Rhodes. You have the room across the hall from Tony, right?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Why did you come over?”

            “Well, I saw the—news on TV.”

            “What were you doing watching TV? It’s three AM there.”

            “I was trying to get some d—n homework done.”

            “No need to get p----d, young man. I’ve heard Tony talk about you before. He seems to think you’re a friend.”

            “Well, he’s right.”

            “Good. Then you can help me. Is there anyone else there? Check the bathroom and the closet.”

            “Man, that’s kind of paranoid…”

            “Just check them.”

            “I am… There’s no one else here.”

            “Good. Now lock the door and close the blinds.”

            “Okay. Tony’s still staring at the TV screen. He’s really pale. Tony? Can you hear me, man?”

            “Jim. First of all, I need you to make sure Tony doesn’t do anything stupid.”

            “Like what? He’s just sitting there. I think I should call a doctor or something—“

            “No. Listen to me. I’m going to call a friend of the family who lives in New York. His name is Bill Gyer. He’s going to come up and bring Tony back here. All you have to do is keep him quiet—“

            “Tony! Hey, Tony, stop it!”

            “Jim! G-------t, what’s going on?!”

            “Tony, just—Don’t—Hey! Aw, s—t. Come here. Come on.”

            “Jim! What the—“

            “Um, so, okay, he tried to throw the TV out the window.”

            “F—k!”

            “But he didn’t, it’s just on the floor. But, um, then he punched the wall really hard, and it’s cinderblock, so—I think his hand is broken.”

            “F—k. This is the kind of stupid thing you were supposed to prevent!”

            “Well _sorry_! I’ve never seen him act like this before.”

            “Well his parents never got killed in a car wreck before… What’s he doing now?”

            “He’s crying. He’s just curled up on the bed, crying. Come on, Tony, shh. It’s, um…”

            “It’s not okay. Don’t tell him it’s okay.”

            “No, I know.”

            “Okay, Bill Gyer. Three, maybe four hours. He and Tony are gonna get on a plane and come back here. Can you stay with him until then?”

            “Yes. Of course.”

            “He might not be done freaking out.”

            “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

            “F—k homework, right? F—k morning classes.”

            “I understand. I won’t leave him alone.”

            “Just keep him quiet. If you can get him cleaned up at all, that would be great.”

            “What about his hand? It’s all red and swollen.”

            “Put some ice on it.”

            “Are you kidding, man? Something’s broken in there for sure! I should take him to an ER—“

            “Jim. Tony is a seventeen-year-old sophomore at MIT who just inherited a multi-billion-dollar, multi-national corporation after a horrible accident. I guarantee you, there are reporters trying to call this number at this exact moment. Within minutes they will be congregating outside the dorm. His hand will heal. What won’t is the damage caused by video of him freaking out in public, running on an endless loop on every news channel. He doesn’t need to see that. Do you understand?”

            “Yes—sir, I do. I just—didn’t think about the publicity. It’s never really been an issue before.”

            “Well that’s about to change. What’s he doing?”

            “Still crying.”

            “Okay. You put some ice on his hand. You do not open that door or answer the phone, right? I’m going to call the school and explain. I am going to call you back in exactly one hour. Okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “Listen, Jim—we both just want to do what’s best for Tony.”

            “Right, of course.”

            “He really needs his friends right now.”

            “Absolutely.”

            “I really appreciate it, Jim. I know he will, too, in his way.”

            “Yeah…”

            “One hour, exactly.”

            “Okay. I’ll be here.”

            So that was how that happened. Bill Gyer, who was also on the Board and had known me since before I was born, came up from New York and got a doctor into my dorm room to set my hand up temporarily. I got cleaned up and ready to go, and then I threw up because of the pain pills the doctor had given me so we had to start all over. But eventually I got on the private plane and flew back home to San Francisco.

            I remember racing down the corridors of the hospital in San Francisco, every step jarring the bones in my hand, people jumping out of my way. One little-known fact—my mother wasn’t killed instantly in the car crash. She was still alive. Technically. I needn’t have hurried, really, because they could have kept her ‘alive’ with the machines for quite some time. Months, really. Maybe longer. But why would they? She wasn’t going to recover. They were just waiting for me to get there. So I could see her, unrecognizable under a mass of bandages and tubes, unable to understand anything that was going on around her. So I got there, and they flipped the switch—like turning off a light. And the noises from the monitors stopped almost instantly, because the machines were what were really causing those noises anyway, not her. And that was how that happened.

            Obadiah took care of everything. The school, the company, the will. He didn’t try to cheat me or trick me. H—l, if he had asked me to _give_ him the company right then, I would have. But he didn’t try anything like that. I wasn’t really paying attention at the time, but I asked people about it later.

            He took care of the funeral arrangements, too. I didn’t mind. I wouldn’t have been any help anyway. Everything was tasteful and restrained, which was surprising in hindsight, but he had a tasteful and restrained assistant at the time so she probably handled a lot of the details. I didn’t speak at the funeral, but then again I hadn’t spoken much at all for five days, except to say, “Thank you” while smiling robotically and shaking hands with the people who offered condolences.

            Obadiah made me get a haircut before the funeral events—I was sporting a very popular style at the time, a long-ish ‘do that might have been in the mullet family (but definitely what all the cool kids were wearing), and he got it cut to something short and preppy, something respectable and responsible. If shorter hair made me look respectable, Obadiah must’ve looked like God, because even then he was completely bald. But he knew there would be a lot of company people around, a lot of industry people, a lot of media people, and he wanted me to look the part of the dutiful heir to them. I didn’t really care either way, so I went along with whatever he wanted.

            “Tony, you stand here,” he said at the visitation. Right next to the two closed caskets (firmly closed—already sealed and everything) and the portraits of my parents. “Smile. Say ‘thank you’ and ‘thank you for coming.’ School is going fine, you slammed your hand in a door last week but it’s getting better. Can you remember all that?” I nodded. “You’re going to have to speak at some point, Tony. So get used to it. Okay?”

            I cleared my throat. It was a little dusty. “Okay.”

            “I’m going to be standing right here, and I’ll get rid of people if they ramble on too long,” he promised. “You just keep smiling and saying, ‘thank you.’ And do not f—k around, go it?” We were alone while he gave me this little pep talk, having a ‘moment’ before anyone else came in. “Now are you gonna be okay? Do you want to take anything?”

            I didn’t catch his meaning right away. “It would probably make me sick.”

            He conceded that point. “What’d you take for your hand?”

            “A couple of Tylenol.” Any more and I would puke.

            Obadiah put his hands on my shoulders, I guess to make sure I was paying attention to him. Who else was I going to pay attention to? There was no one else in the room. “Listen, you need to stay calm through this, okay? There’s gonna be a lot of people through here and it’s gonna be exhausting. They need to see you, Tony. They need to see you calm and quiet and well-behaved. You understand me?”

            Oh, like a three-year-old ringbearer at a society wedding. “Yes.” Being calm wasn’t what I was worried about. I was very calm. People probably _would_ think I had taken something. I was more worried about not feeling anything at all. Even my hand didn’t hurt very much. Intellectually, that didn’t seem right. But I was kinda busy at the moment and didn’t have time to think it over.

            Obadiah nodded and backed off a little. He wasn’t a touchy-feely person. My parents were touchy-feely people. _I_ was a touchy-feely person. Some people just weren’t, though. Or weren’t all the time—at that moment I felt about as huggable as a block of ice.

            “Do you, um—“ He glanced at the caskets behind me. I don’t want to discount his own feelings about everything that had happened—I’m sure they were genuine. Obadiah loved my parents. And they loved him—they weren’t stupid people, they wouldn’t let someone in that close who was just using them. He had lost two of his closest friends. I just want to be fair about that. “Do you want—a moment alone?”

            With them, he meant. Or rather, with the objects representing them. “I don’t like being alone.”

            He sighed and put his hand on my arm. “I know you don’t, Tony. But you won’t be. Okay?”

            “Thank you,” I told him, with a distant smile.

            “Very good,” he approved.

            The next day was the funeral and burial. I was a pallbearer for my father’s coffin, which was surprisingly not difficult to do with a broken hand. There were five other people there to do the actual carrying, you see, and I just slipped in once it was lifted so that I _looked_ like I was doing something. We practiced first, of course, before doing it in front of witnesses. I would rather have walked with my mother’s coffin, honestly—don’t read too much into that, I just thought that she was getting a little neglected while all the news focused on my dad and his accomplishments. But Obadiah shot that idea down, saying people _would_ read too much into it. My father and I actually got along great—it was my mom and I who clashed sometimes, because we both had strong personalities and weren’t shy about expressing them. Not that my dad _wasn’t_ strong—he _did_ build the company from scratch, after all—he was just quieter. Calmer. Infuriatingly so sometimes. But there was nothing dysfunctional about any relationship in our family—I just want to say that for the record, because afterward there was a lot of ugly speculation.

            So there was the funeral and the burial. And that night Obadiah poured a couple of beers in me (my tolerance was a lot lower back then) and said, “Come on, Tony, let’s go someplace I think you’ll enjoy.”

            The word ‘brothel’ seems so old-fashioned to me, like it should exist only above a saloon in the Old West, or maybe beyond a lace doily-filled parlor in New Orleans. That’s not how they make ‘em in ‘Frisco these days—at least the high-end ones Obadiah preferred. They were more like cocktail parties, but with more places to sit and really friendly guests. Very touchy-feely guests.

            “How old is this kid, Obadiah?” I heard the madam asking—she looked more like the manager of an elegant perfume store than Miss Kitty, that’s for sure. “He looks too young to me.”

            “Too young to do something that’s illegal no matter what age?” Obadiah shot back with amusement. “He’s fine. It’s that baby face. I keep trying to convince him to grow a beard.”

            I was over on the couch with two young ladies named Samantha and Abbie, all of us getting better acquainted. Actually Samantha and Abbie seemed very well acquainted already, which was fine with me. At least they made me _feel_ something again. I don’t want to get into TMI territory here, but I was no blushing virgin even then. But sex was more of a pleasant, opportunistic diversion up until this point. Afterward, it became a serious pursuit.

            “Now be careful with him, girls,” Obadiah warned cheerfully. “He’s a little broken right now.”

            “Well, there’s five good hands between us,” I told the girls. “I’m sure we can figure something out. You two look _very_ resourceful to me…”

            This became our tradition—every year around the same time we would head off to a place Obadiah had found, get plastered, make some new friends. You might be thinking this didn’t sound much different from what I did on a regular basis, except usually I invited the new friend home so _they_ had to slip out in the morning. If you thought that, you would have a point. Except the ‘anniversary celebration’ was more extreme—more alcohol, more women, and more uncomfortable positions to wake up in. Sorry, that probably _was_ TMI.

            Obadiah though it was a useful outlet for me. After all, for a week or so leading up to our celebration I tended to be tense, moody, non-productive (more than usual), more likely to sit at home brooding than going out and having fun. Obviously what I needed was to let off a little steam.

            The first time this particular event came around under her reign, Pepper didn’t know what to make of it. By the second time she was more prepared and found little reasons to touch my hands or face, which always made me feel better. After a while I didn’t even feel like going out with Obadiah—I _did_ go, but it was less enjoyable. I don’t know why—maybe I just felt that after all this time had passed, I didn’t need _him_ shepherding my vices anymore. I handled them pretty well on my own.

            One year, I just started avoiding him all week. I only responded to business-related emails, didn’t take phone calls, only saw him in professional crowds where he wasn’t likely to ask, “So, Tony, when you wanna hit the whorehouse this week?” Pepper blocked him expertly, without even being told to. I was still tense, moody, and non-productive, though; I just didn’t want my ‘outlet’ to be dictated to me by him. I had a feeling he wouldn’t take this news well, either.

            I was sitting in my office staring out the big glass window, twirling a pen and thinking. Once a year I deliberately let myself think, and usually it was such an unpleasant experience that I swore it off for another twelve months. I had gotten onto the subject of my father’s office—it wasn’t the same one I used, in fact I think it had been divided up into storage closets and part of a conference room. My office was bigger, more impressive, less personal. Actually the back half of my office, with the studio desk and the bright lights and the piles of sketches lying around and bulletin board with pictures of new designs pinned to it—that reminded me more of my father’s office. He didn’t have a huge desk with a chair in front of it and a massive window behind it, for receiving important visitors and awing them with his might. He had a good business sense, don’t get me wrong, but once he was established he preferred to leave the money stuff up to Obadiah and just focus on designing. He really _worked_ in his office—sketching and building, I mean. When I was little I had to be very careful whenever I visited him there, so I wouldn’t knock over one of his models or mix up his ‘organized’ piles.

            I dropped the pen I was twirling and pulled another out of the box on my lap. Who had time to bend over and pick up a dropped pen? I was very busy, you know.

            There was a knock on the door and then Pepper stuck her head in. “Am I disturbing you, Mr. Stark?”

            “No. Come pick up these pens.”

            Pepper dutifully gathered up the pens littering the floor around my feet. It was the third time she had done this during the afternoon, but it didn’t seem to bother her. “Would you mind if I did some filing in here, sir?” she asked. “Copyright just sent back the last several months of sketches.” She indicated a thick folder she’d left on my desk.

            “If you want.” I meant to go back to staring out the window, but my gaze followed Pepper across the room, as it usually did. And suddenly I noticed something. “Pepper, I can see your knees!”

            “Yes, sir,” she confirmed. “Does this bother you?”

            “Not at all.” Normally her skirts were longer than that, if close-fitting. “Have you been wearing that skirt all day?”

            “No, sir. I just bought it at lunch,” she told me, sorting the sketches into piles on my desk.

            “Why’d you go with the shorter style?” I asked curiously, not really doing anything better.

            “Well,” she began thoughtfully, and I braced myself for a convoluted explanation, “I thought it might make you happy, and you seemed sad today.”

            I stopped twirling the pen. “Oh.”

            She looked over her shoulder at me. “Am I wrong?”

            I stared at the back of her legs, parts I didn’t usually get to see, rather than at her eyes. “No, I’m enjoying it.”

            People get weird about death. I tended to avoid a lot of people at work this week every year, because the old-timers always wanted to reminisce about my parents. Maybe if somebody actually had an _interesting_ story it would be okay, but it was always the same boring ones over and over that they felt they just _had_ to tell me. I suppose they thought they were being nice to me, sensitive to my pain or whatever, but—you wanna ease my pain, show me a nice pair of legs. Honestly. Do something to make me think about happy things, not remind me yet again about what I don’t have anymore. I knew people meant well, but walking on eggshells around me was only going to make me more tense—I just felt like everyone was waiting for me to flip out or something. So of course then I had to flip out.

            “Where do _your_ parents live, Pepper?” I asked suddenly. I didn’t recall her ever mentioning them.

            “Far away,” she answered.

            “Don’t be specific or anything,” I replied.

            She glanced back at me. “I’m not really supposed to say.”

            I was immediately intrigued. “Why not? Are they in military intelligence? Witness Protection? Wanted criminals?”

            “I’m not really supposed to say,” she repeated demurely, still sorting the sketches.

            “Do you visit them on your vacation?”

            “No.”

            “Do you miss them?” Maybe she didn’t even _like_ her parents.

            She paused before answering. “Yes.” It seemed authentic.

            I gave this some thought. “You know, Pep, I know people. In the government and the military, I mean. I bet I could get them leave or whatever.”

            She smiled a little. “That’s very nice of you, sir. But I don’t think that would be applicable.”

            “I also know a lot of lawyers, if they’re bootleggers or something.” For some reason I could picture Pepper in the backwoods somewhere, pouring corn into a homemade still. Maybe it was the short-shorts se would naturally be wearing during this activity.

            “What should I file this one under, sir?” she asked by way of response, showing me a packet of sketches of a one-man airplane concept I’d been working on, with the plane barely larger than the person flying it.

            “Extremely Experimental,” I told her dismissively. Obadiah had probably been right when he said no one would be crazy enough to fly something like that.

            “Hmm,” Pepper said speculatively, scrutinizing the next group. “This doesn’t look like yours. Copyright must have put it in by mistake.” She peered at the signature on the top sketch. “I think it says ‘Stark,’ though…”

            “Let me see.” I took it from her. “Oh, yeah, this was one of my dad’s old designs,” I explained. “I was trying to update it a little—they must have put the original on top instead of at the back.” I studied the sketch for a moment, admiring the detail he had put into even a preliminary idea that ultimately wasn’t used. “You know, I can go back to any of my dad’s designs and understand exactly what he wanted to do with it.”

            “Well, you’re very talented, sir,” Pepper remarked.

            I rolled my eyes. “No, I mean—here, look at this.” She leaned against the desk and looked at the drawing I held up for her. “Look at all the notes he made, all the equations, the little side sketches of the internal components. He thought of everything, all the details, anticipated all the problems and thought of solutions for them, just from sketching.”

            “You do that, too, don’t you?” she asked with the confusion of a non-engineer.

            “Well, I _think_ of them, but I don’t write them down,” I pointed out. “G-d, if I kicked off right now no one would be able to follow anything I’d done unless it was in at least Stage III.”

            “I would be very sad if that happened, sir.”

            “Yeah, so would Design, they’d be stuck with about fifteen stalled projects on their hands.” I blinked. “Oh, you meant you’d be sad if I _died_.”

            “Yes, sir,” she confirmed patiently.

            I handed her back the sketches. “Here, file this under ‘Amphibious.’ Well, you know, I’m not going anywhere, Pepper. Anywhere, er, dead, I mean,” I added, in case she didn’t get my euphemism.

            “I read a book about ancient Greek mythology recently,” Pepper replied randomly. “They believed that three supernatural beings wove a piece of string to represent each person’s life, and when it was time for the person to die they cut the string off.”

            I frowned. “I don’t remember anything about that from my classic civ class,” I countered. “The ancient Greeks had, like, a million gods, not just three who decided who lived and who died.”

            “I don’t think they really _decided_ , sir,” Pepper countered. She was sitting on the edge of the desk now, her bare legs in tempting proximity. I scooted closer. “They just cut the thread when the time was right, whenever it was meant to be.”

            “Meant to be?” I repeated, with some derision. I had my hand on her leg now, figuring she would tell me to move it if she didn’t like it. “Like, if someone made them mad, they cut it off early? I remember Greek mythology—it was like a big soap opera, with everyone sleeping with everyone else and all the mere mortals getting bumped off when the gods were in a bad mood.”

            Pepper shook her head. “These three were different. They couldn’t be bribed or intimidated. They just cut the string when it was time, whether the person was young or old or good or bad. Isn’t that interesting? The ancient Greeks must have been very peaceful and easy-going, if they believed that.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Pepper, the ancient Greeks may have invented democracy and geometry but somehow they never got around to _pants_ , so let’s not give them too much credit, okay?”

            “Okay, sir,” she agreed. “Shall I file these?”

            I was about to tell her to go ahead, but then I hesitated. “No, let’s just sit here for a little while longer.”

            “Okay. Would you like to hear more about the ancient Greeks, sir?”

            “No, I’m done with that topic,” I decided.

            “Okay. Did you know that in the afterlife for Viking warriors, the dead people fought battles all day and then had their injuries healed so they could feast all night?” The ‘feasting all night’ bit probably appealed to her.

            “Yes, everybody knows that, Pepper,” I told her shortly, beginning to feel a bit irritated.

            “Oh. Well, in the ancient Celtic afterlife—“

            “Pepper, what is this obsession with death?” I snapped. “It’s _boring_.”

            “I’m sorry, sir,” she replied, fingers brushing my forehead as she pushed some hair back into place. “I’ve been reading about the death beliefs of a number of human cultures lately.”

            “Did you see the op-ed piece in the _New York Times_ Monday?” I asked her abruptly. Of course she had. “They called me the ‘merchant of death.’ Did the ancient Celts have one of _those_?”

            “I don’t think so, sir. Does the label bother you?”

            I shrugged. “It’s accurate. I do sell things that are designed to kill people. Do you think that’s better or worse than selling things you claim are safe, but that kill people unexpectedly?” Like, say, the brakes on an eighteen-wheeler.

            I never got to hear her answer, because the door to my office was pushed open—no knock, even!—and Obadiah leaned against the doorway with a smirk on his face. I sighed and turned my chair away a little—he was just about the last person on Earth I wanted to see right now.

            “Well now I understand why I haven’t been able to catch you all week,” he commented in a _tone_ I didn’t like.

            I dropped my hand from Pepper’s leg. “Get out,” I told him, with no preamble.

            “Nice outfit, Pepper,” he remarked instead.

            “Don’t talk to her like that,” I snapped.

            He snorted. “Tony, you’re ten times worse, on a daily basis—“

            “I said get out.”

            Instead he stepped farther into the office. I could see Mary at her desk right outside the door, peering in with concern. “Come on, Tony,” he said in a persuasive yet patronizing voice. “Don’t get upset. Look, I know you aren’t doing anything. Why don’t we take off a little early and visit this place I know near the—“

            I turned my back on him fully, hoping he would get the point—since obviously ‘get out’ was too subtle. “Pepper, where were we in the filing?” I asked, as if I was really willing or able to help with that.

            I could sense his eyes narrowing at me—Obadiah hated to be dismissed. “I’m sure we could find you some skinny blonds if that’s what you’d—“

            I was out of my chair before I even knew what I was doing. I don’t know what I would have done if Pepper hadn’t gotten in between us—Obadiah wasn’t exactly a pacifist himself, and he was really p----d off. Anyone else Pepper’s size would have gotten pushed aside while we locked antlers, but Pepper was surprisingly strong—with one hand on each of our chests keeping us apart, it was kind of like there was a steel girder in between us.

            “I will call for Security if you two don’t calm down,” Pepper warned us.

            I backed away. “Fine, I’m calm,” I announced through gritted teeth.

            There was a moment of silence as we both regrouped. “Would you excuse us, Pepper?” Obadiah growled.

            “Stop f-----g telling her what to do,” I shot back. So, not _exactly_ calm.

            “Well can she at least shut the g-----n door?” I indicated that she could—no need to upset the secretaries with our uncivilized conversation. Pepper stayed carefully out of the way, watching us both, ready to jump in again if it should become necessary. Her presence didn’t bother me since she was always around; but Obadiah seemed a bit put off. Good.

            “Well, are you through being a p---k?” he asked me after a moment.

            “Probably not,” I replied snottily.

            He clenched his jaw like he was making a supreme effort to be patient with me. I found this irritating, since it was _his_ fault I was in a bad mood. He glanced around the office as if looking for a distraction and his eye was caught by my dad’s sketch on my desk. “What’s this?” he asked, reaching for it.

            I snatched it away, shoving its whole pile into the garbage can. “Nothing. Just filing.” Pepper could sort them out later. Again.

            Obadiah sighed. “You’re not the only one who misses them, you know,” he said quietly. “You’re not the only one who’s upset.”

            “I’m not upset,” I snapped. “Well, I’m upset at _you_.” He’d said something mean about Pepper—at least, I _thought_ that was why I was mad at him, it was a little fuzzy at this point.

            He rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’re not upset. Come out with me tonight and you’ll be even _less_ upset.”

            “I don’t wanna go out,” I told him defiantly.

            “Well what are you going to do instead, may I ask?” he needled.

            I shrugged, trying to come up with a good idea quickly. “Go home. Order pizza. Watch a movie.”

            “Brood, drink, trash the house, get arrested riding your motorcycle down the sidewalk,” Obadiah translated cynically. “I know you, Tony.”

            “You don’t know me.”

            “Tonight I need you where I can keep an eye on you.”

            “I don’t f-----g _want_ you to keep an eye on me!” I swept the remaining piles of sketches off the desk onto the floor.

            “Yes, I can see you have excellent self-control at the moment,” he remarked dryly.

            “Get the f—k out of my office.”

            “Fine,” he agreed icily. “But when you’re out being an idiot tonight, try to only get _yourself_ killed.” He yanked the door open stiffly and slammed it shut after himself.

            I immediately looked for other things in the room I could throw at the door after him, but there wasn’t much. Aside from the box of pens I had grabbed specifically for today, I didn’t have any office supplies, because I didn’t do any work. Everything here was just for show.

            Well, that just meant it would have to be something big, like the desk chair. Sensing my destructive intent Pepper strode forward and grabbed my hands, maneuvering me over to the couch. I didn’t exactly resist her—it didn’t seem to do any good, anyway—but I didn’t exactly go quietly, either. I felt like a spring inside me had been coiling tighter and tighter all week, probably for longer, and I was practically shaking with the need to let it loose—throwing, breaking, or punching something being the fastest way to break the tension, though other methods of the type Obadiah suggested would work as well.

            Pepper sat me down and began pressing her cool, smooth hands against my cheek, forehead, the back of my neck, all the while murmuring soothing phrases encouraging me to calm down. Didn’t she understand it didn’t _work_ that way? I couldn’t calm down if I hadn’t _done_ anything. I would’ve pushed her away but I was afraid that in my current mood I would misjudge and hurt her.

            I just didn’t understand why one minute everything in life was fine, the path was clear, things were simple, and then all of a sudden things became chaotic and confusing and complicated—when nothing had _changed_ really, when I’d just progressed from one day to the next. Suddenly I didn’t want to do the things I used to enjoy, suddenly the people who used to amuse me just irritated me, suddenly I was restless and tense and couldn’t settle down—and why? Just because it was a certain day, a certain time of the year? It was ridiculous.

            “I mean, I _enjoy_ my life,” I continued, babbling to Pepper.

            “That’s good,” she replied comfortingly.

            “I mean, that’s _good_ , isn’t it? To _enjoy_ life? It’s not like I’m _wasting_ it. You think I’m wasting it?”

            “I didn’t say that, sir.”

            I mean, in terms of designs, I contributed _way_ more to the company than anyone officially _in_ the design department. Plus I did all the interviews, social appearances, put a face on the company. Just like the Queen of England. Well, more like several of her children rolled into one (scandals included).

            I just wasn’t _meant_ for a nine-to-five job—I was too free-spirited, like my mother. Sometimes she would be up all night working on a painting, when she felt the genius inside her and thought of nothing but getting it out for all to see. Thank G-d we had had servants or I probably would’ve missed several meals when I was little.

            Now my dad was very methodical—brilliant, but steady, working away solidly, churning out these unbelievable designs that were practically fully built by the time they left his office. Even at its peak the company never had more than a handful of other designers while my dad was alive, because there just wasn’t that much for them to _do_ —he’d thought of everything. But that didn’t mean he was slow, not at all—designs just poured out of him, he could sit down anywhere and come up with something, on a scrap of paper in the car or on a napkin at a party. During meals out at more casual places we would take turns sketching on the back of a paper placemat, each adding some bold new component to a design. He didn’t seem to worry that he wouldn’t get them all out of his head before he forgot them or before—before something else happened. He was always telling me to slow down, add more detail, think the designs through, but I was always in a rush myself—on to the next new thing, filling in the holes are what the _other_ people are for, can’t they figure out what I _meant_? “Geez, Dad, I thought you hired _smart_ people!”

            “Well, they’re not quite as smart as _you_ , son. So don’t make them _guess_ what you meant, okay? You’ll just be frustrated later if they get it wrong.” Well, he certainly called _that_ one.

            I sighed, looking up at Pepper’s reassuringly blank expression. Somehow I had ended up lying on the couch with my head in her lap, feeling oddly tired. But, admittedly, no longer like I wanted to destroy things. Chalk that up to maturity, I supposed—I couldn’t stay a temper-driven post-adolescent forever, after all.

            “Are you feeling better, sir?” Pepper asked.

            “Yes, thank you,” I replied without moving. I was quite comfortable in this position. If there had been a TV turned to the Discovery Channel in view, and a mini-fridge with some beers within reach, life might have been perfect.

            And that was all I wanted. A perfect life that I could coast through, like floating in the pool in the backyard. It didn’t seem like so much to ask—after all, with money, brains, and good looks, I was already _way_ closer to achieving perfection than most other people.

            “That’s certainly one way to look at it, sir,” Pepper agreed. At least I think she was agreeing. “What would you like to do now, sir?”

            “I would like to continue doing exactly what I’m currently doing, Pepper,” I replied contentedly. A thought occurred to me. “Are _you_ wanting to do something else?”

            “I would like to continue the filing, sir.” Tactfully she did not say ‘redo.’

            “Very well,” I allowed. I was in a position to grant my friends small favors, after all. Pepper maneuvered out from under me and placed a pillow beneath my head instead. I was not as comfortable. But I was about to get up anyway. “Pepper, how soon can the yacht be ready to sail?”

            “Which yacht, sir?” she responded, carefully picking up all the sketches from the floor.

            Good question. “The smallest one that has a full cabin on board,” I decided. “So I can drive it myself, without any crew.”

            Pepper gave me a reproachful look. “I don’t think you should go out in the boat by yourself, sir.”

            “Who said I would be by myself?” I grinned, pulling out my cell phone. Normally Pepper made all my calls, but for some reason she didn’t think it was appropriate to contact certain people for me. Like Pepper could really discern what was appropriate. “Hey, Melanie, it’s me. Listen, are you up for a long weekend on a yacht in the Bay? Good, glad to hear it. Bring a couple friends, okay? I don’t care, just make sure I can tell them apart—I hate that tanned, LA clone look. Of course, that sounds reasonable—you want that upfront or is afterwards okay? No, it’s fine, I’ll just have to send Pepper to the bank today. And the store. Meet me at five at the Bayside Marina, okay? Just tell them you’re my guests and they’ll let you in. Tell your pals to dress up, though. See you then.” I snapped the phone closed. “Oh, Pepper…”

            She had succeeded in gathering all the sketches back up—including the ones that had fallen in the trash—but she seemed to realize her dreams of filing them today were about to be crushed. “I’ll have the yacht readied and get cash for you at the bank, sir,” she assured me.

            “And go to the store. Make sure the boat is stocked for three days. Only the best. I’ll make a list.” Mentally, of course—I didn’t think I’d ever made a written list in my life.

            “Yes, sir,” she agreed, heading for the door. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

            “No thanks,” I told her. “I’m just going to lie here for a while.” Enjoying life. While it lasted.

           

* * *


End file.
